Peter's Boat
by Talianca
Summary: Just a little diligence at the bank with daddy: bored as always, but Captain Peter will not be overcome by boredom. Let's sail!


"Daddy, daddy! Can we enter there for a second? Yes, please?"

Tino reaffirmed his grip on his son's hand, feeling how he began to shake it to get away and run into the bakery, which had completely caught his attention.

Geez, how could there be so many goodies in one place? They all looked so delicious, but the cookies looked _especially_ delicious; and they were shaped like a dog, like Hana! Who would not want one of those funny cookies?

"Not now, Peter." The four-year-old turned his eyes back to his father, resisting in an undisguised manner when the older man slightly pressed his fingers. "First, we have to go to the bank, when we're done we can go wherever you want; and if you behave, I'll buy you something, okay?"

The boy pouted at the answer, but nodded, stumbling several times and being practically dragged by his father, once he was aware of the hour.

"Oh, not, they're about to close! Run, Peter!" He exclaimed as he began to do it himself. With that, they both ran down the street for a few minutes, with the boy trying his best to follow the strides that the adult took.

In a moment, when Peter's eyes went stuck in something behind the glass of a store, the boy failed to notice a drop in the road and stumbled on it, the fall causing him to be torn from the firm grip of his father and crashed of paunch on the pavement.

"Oh, Peter!" Tino cried, braking hard and turning on his heels to pick up the boy.

He put both hands under his arms and pulled him up to put him back on his feet. When he didn't hear a complaint coming from the boy after the blow, he looked up to his face to study his expression, following the direction of his eyes and finding behind the showcase of the toy store, exhibited in all its splendor and with multiple signs that indicated its novelty, a white sailing ship with celestial lines and two white sails; an object of considerable size for a toy. They both stayed there for a moment, only admiring that beautiful model, before Tino gently patted Peter's clothes to remove the dirt that had been left in them, and took his hand again, muttering a "nothing happened" before resuming his rush against time.

* * *

Once they arrived at the place, a little less than half a minute before they were to close the door in their faces, Tino sighed in relief and went on to take the last place in the line. They wouldn't open the doors for about two hours, although judging by the number of people present, that would take them to complete their diligence.

Peter, meanwhile, began to wander around the place, looking for something to entertain himself, but he had no luck, seeing he was the only child in that place, so there would be no chance of finding a friend to play. He snorted exasperated, fixing his gaze on two talking men, one of them with a notebook in his hands that he kept open, though without reading its contents, instead, too busy chatting with the other. He walked toward them, and without thinking much, he gently pulled one of the straps of the large backpack that hung from the back of the man who held the notebook, who looked down, surprised and confused, and so did his partner.

"Excuse me, sir," he exclaimed, letting go the leash and staring into his face, "could you give me a paper sheet, please?"

The man watched him stunned for a moment, but a few seconds later he returned his gaze to his companion and outlined an amused smile. He held the notebook against his chest, holding it with one hand, and using the other to rip with one sure movement one of the few sheets remaining, passing it on to the child afterwards.

"Here you go, boy." He laughed, closing the notebook.

"Thank you!" He replied smiling, running to where Tino was. "Daddy, look! Can you make me a boat?"

The man looked down at his son, confused for a moment.

"And where did you get that?" He asked, raising an eyebrow as he took the sheet in his hands, beginning to fold it to create the figure in question.

"A gentleman gave it to me." He answered, jumping in his place and reaching out his hands excited when he saw that Tino was giving the last folds to the paper.

"Here you go, Captain, be careful when sailing, okay?"

"Yes daddy!" He said before walking away and entering his fantasy, where he was Captain Peter Oxenstier to Väinämöinen, the best and most famous captain in the whole world!

Yes. Peter loved boats.

* * *

It had been about forty minutes, and Tino already felt the consequences of being on his feet for so long, especially on his aching heels; and the worst part was that he was the one who was going to get out of there last, being completely at the end of the line.

He looked up from a stain on the floor and quickly scanned the place, looking for his energetic little one, though without luck. It had been several minutes since the last time he had taken the passengers from 'Peter's boat' to him, to say hello to daddy.

Not that his absence worried him very much, at least the doors were closed, so, in no way could he have gone out into the street. Most likely, he was just behind that whole line, waving his boat here and there and playing his role in a strange way, apparently going sailing sometimes a sailboat, sometimes a cruise, and for a while, what seemed to be a pirate ship.

Tino sighed, running his hand along his arm, and when his fingers met the clock, he brought his eyes back to the object, not straining to suppress a groan when he saw the numbers on the screen, noticing it was almost time to eat, and most likely in a matter of minutes he would have a little one hanging around his waist, complaining and pouting in an attempt to convince him to go home to eat with Papa.

"Daddy!" He heard his son's voice call him, but he couldn't determine exactly where it came from. He leaned from one side to the other, unable to see him anywhere.

"Peter?" He answered, seeing how the people in front of him began to disperse in a hurry, and hearing alarmed shouts from those who were at the top of the line; without understanding the reason for the uproar he took a couple of steps back, a woman almost colliding with him. When he saw the two men who with long firearms threatened the other people, an overwhelming terror shook his body; and with the anguish strangling his words, he proceeded to call his son, the blood freezing in his veins at the sound of the first shot.

"Peter!" Two more shots and the mortified screams increased, along with the chaos and confusion in that small, closed place. And Peter wasn't appearing anywhere. "Dear God! Peter, where are you?!"

He heard one of those two men re-trigger his gun and the sound was suddenly so strong and so close that it stunned him for a second, with enough force to knock him to the floor. When his face became hot and wet, he noticed the blood running through his hair and the agonizing, throbbing pain in his head, product of the impact of the projectile.

As the pain intensified, his consciousness faded and his gaze, becoming progressively more and more blurred, wandered restlessly through the place until he finally identified that shirt with blue, yellow and white stripes, a cause of discord between father and son after having to force the boy to use it earlier that day. He was a few meters away, face down and with his face turned away from his position. His heart skipped a beat and a muffled whimper escaped from his lips.

He struggled hard to get up, but his limbs seemed to refuse to follow instructions, though he was not even sure he was formulating them. It seemed rather as if his body was the one guiding him to reach his son, doing his best to ignore the dizziness and nausea, along with the pain that doubly hindered his work, crawling on the floor to where he was.

"... Peter-!" With his will going out at last until he reached his little one, he let his right hand fall on Peter's, closing it tightly and wrinkling in the process the little paper boat under the little hand. The last thing he noticed in that scene was the pool of blood under his baby's body. "P-Peter, look at me..."

A person passed over them, almost stepping on the now bloody boat; and before Tino's brain disconnected, he saw the straps of a large backpack that hung from the back of the man who held a gun, waving after his steps.

* * *

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This is just one thing I wrote, as my first attempt to make a text in English. For the love of God, help me correct all the grammatical and orthographic horrors that I obviously committed

You can use insults and death threats if you want to, sorry for offending your language in this way

(I just noticed the site deleted a lot of words for some reason, what the fuck?!)


End file.
